Broken Halves
by Ulura
Summary: Sherlock believes John to be dead after a case gone wrong and finds nobody to blame but himself. However John is alive, but not well and needs to find his ay back to Sherlock. But the world is a cruel place, especially when you have no memory of who you are and when Moriarty finds John with his mind wiped clean he decided to use the detectives blogger to break his once and for all.
1. Chapter 1

"I hate flying." John groaned as the plan lurched once more in the light turbulence, "Couldn't we have taken a train?"

Planes reminded John too much of his deployments, when the aircraft was dodging and weaving through the sky in an effort not to be shot down or simply fall apart due to rust. He'd already taken motion sickness tablets and a ginger pill but neither were quelling the awful nausea that was gradually getting worse and worse. At this rate he'd be in the tiny bathroom throwing up his in flight meal within the hour.

"Trains and boats would of taken days, John." Sherlock sighed as if he were talking to a child, "This way we only have one day of travel."

"One awful day." John moaned.

"We'll be in Germany for your birthday." Sherlock pointed out still not meeting John's eyes, opting to read the case file again instead, "I thought that would cheer you up at least."

It was true, his birthday was in four days, but he'd assumed Sherlock would spent it solving the case. Honestly John didn't mind that really, he'd already had many birthdays and solving crimes with Sherlock wasn't a bad way to spend it. This case was particularly interesting, at least it seemed so to John, Sherlock seemed slightly annoyed by it since it had come by Mycroft's hand.

The doctor wasn't sure on some of the finer details but apparently some rich German diplomat 'friend' of Mycroft's had attempted to kill a German count and frame the British Secret Service. They had failed naturally but he would try again and getting the proof required to convict the diplomat took too much leg work for Mycroft's taste.

"I'll of wrapped this case up within the next two days," Sherlock continued, "It's barely a seven, barely. Then I suppose I could handle two days of tourist attractions or whatever it is you want to do."

The offer would have sounded reluctant and somewhat cold to an outsider but John knew better. There were very few people Sherlock was willing to spend two days with doing things he hates just to make them happy.

John would of thanked him but the plane gave another lurch and he had to focus on not throwing up all over his companion. Sherlock glanced at him and sighed.

"You've been up to your elbow in gut and yet a plane ride renders you sick." Sherlock muttered, "Honestly, it's another three hours just take a sleeping pill before you ruin the seats."

-oOo-

Though he tried to make it appear otherwise, Sherlock had spent much time debating the topic of John's birthday in his mind. John was a traditional person, he liked to celebrate his birthday, he also liked it when people remembered it without his reminding them, it made him feel wanted, which was very important. John needed to be needed in a way Sherlock had noticed, it was obvious just looking at his profession, Army Doctor, he lived to make a difference, he needed to feel as though he was doing something important with his life.

Sherlock didn't have experience with birthdays, he'd occasionally gotten the odd cake for Mrs. Hudson or solved a hard case without being condescending (A very hard task) for Lestrade but other than that his knowledge on the subject was severely lacking.

He knew he had to get John a gift, but what? He'd spent countless hours online as well as on the streets of London but had come up with nothing. At least until the other day when he'd come across the perfect advertisement outside a small bookshop. Simply hand them a usb with writing on it and they would bind it for you, in leather even and engrave the front. So, unbeknownst to John, Sherlock was housing a small leather bound copy of _A Study in Pink_ in his suitcase.

He was more worried than he felt he should be about whether or not John would like it. What f he didn't? He kept telling himself not to be an idiot, John was stupidly sentimental at times, a book version of their first case together? It was perfect. But still...

-oOo-

Despite his terrible motion sickness on the plane John was rather enjoying the case, they had spent the entire day sneaking about a German country club pretending to be waiters getting information on the count. Tomorrow they were sneaking into the diplomats country home to steal the last pieces of needed evidence from his safe and hand them over to Mycroft, then John could sit back and enjoy his birthday. All in all, it was turning out to be a fantastic trip.

He was about to call out to Sherlock, who was in the bathroom, if he wanted to go out for dinner when he spotted the small book sitting inside the mans open suitcase. Sherlock didn't read much, except scientific journals and such, it was odd to see him with such a delicate looking book. It wasn't particularly big but the outer cover was a deep red leather, it must of been pricy.

He picked it up to look at the cover just as he heard Sherlock reentering the room.

There, in gold writing was the title _A Study in Pink. _

"Sherlock, what's this?"

"Well, it was going to be your birthday present." Sherlock grumbled, "Should of wrapped it, stupid. Isn't that the custom?"

John flipped open the first few pages, skimming the words.

"Is this...is this the first case I typed up?" He breathed, slightly in shock.

"Yes." Sherlock replied looking more than slightly uncomfortable, "You have no idea how hard it was not to fix it and add in all the important details you missed."

John felt himself smiling and he looked over the book again. This was beyond anything he thought Sherlock capable of. There was even a note written on the inside cover in think black pen, he'd recognize Sherlock's handwriting anywhere.

_To John,_

_Remember I'd be lost without my blogger,_

_Sincerely SH._

John chuckled. He could see Sherlock sitting at the kitchen table in his minds eye mulling over what he should write and how to write it. He wouldn't want it to sound too emotional or caring, yet at the same tim he wanted John to know this wasn't a casual gift.

Suddenly he realized the room had been in awed silence for at least three minutes now and Sherlock was slowly beginning to imitate a beet he was so red.

"Of course you don't have to keep it if you don't like it." He added not meeting John's eyes, "It's not a big deal."

"Sherlock, I love it." John chuckled giving the man a quick hug which he didn't return not because he didn't want to but because the action had taken him by surprise.

"You do? I mean, of course." The detective cleared his throat and turned away, but not quite quickly enough of John to miss the small smile of satisfaction on his face.

John knew Sherlock cared for him, probably more than anybody, but confirmation of said care was rare at best. It was always nice to see Sherlock's more sensitive, human side.

"Come on you idiot, let's go to dinner." John laughed.

"Idiot!?" Sherlock countered with mock hurt, "I'm insulted!"

"Well it is an insult."

"That's it you're paying for dinner."

-oOo-

Lestrade remembered a time when he still believed in free will, that was a good time, a calmer time. A time when Mycroft Holmes couldn't magically have him on a plane to Germany if he so wished. The inspector didn't even see why his presence was necessary with John there. But no apparently Sherlock had been planning on breaking into some diplomat's house to steal paper work instead of using the proper channels so here he was in the German countryside, trudging through bushes trying to locate the detective and his blogger before they could commit said break in.

"Ow, Sherlock!"

"Be quiet John I hear somebody!"

"Get off my hand then!"

Speak of the devils.

"John? Sherlock?" Lestrade hissed, "It's me! Where are you?"

There was some rustling and little more quiet whispering from the nearby hedge when suddenly the two men fell out of it and onto the ground.

"John, get off!" Sherlock growled trying to get out from underneath the smaller but heavier man.

"Children, the both of you." Greg shook his head.

"Mycroft sent you." Sherlock deduced getting to his feet, "Honestly, your presence is not required here Lestrade."

"I know but trying to argue with your brother would result in me getting every red light for the rest of my life."

John sent him a sympathetic look, he knew the feeling.

"Can we just go and get the files?" John asked, "He's going to destroy them soon."

"Something my brother obviously wasn't counting on." Sherlock sneered, "Come on John let's go."

And without another word Sherlock had given John a leg up through the bushes and over the stone wall into the diplomat's garden and followed him. Oh well, it you cant beat them join them!

"Wait for me!"

On the other side of the wall was a large estate house that was far too big for a single man and made Lestrade feel even shabbier in his old suit. Three walls surrounded the house and gardens with a sharp cliff face acting at the final wall. Why anybody would want cliffs in their garden was beyond Lestrade.

"Um, Sherlock?" John whispered, "Isn't that the diplomat? Charles?"

John was pointing to a figure making their way over to the cliffs with a small box in his hand.

"The evidence!" Sherlock gasped, "Stupid! Of course he;s going to dispose f it in the ocean, untraceable! Let's go!"

"Hey! Stop!" lestrade yelled the man turned to face them, then began to run.

Why do they always run?

John got to him first natural, tackling the man to the ground and knocking the box from his hands which Sherlock dove for before it could slide along the ground and off the white cliffs.

"Hands up!" Lestrade pulled out his gun and aimed but didn't fire, John and Charles were still rolling on the ground. John reached for his own gun but Charles go there first, grabbing the handgun and firing, missing John but scraping Lestrade's leg.

The wound was superficial but it made Lestrade yelp all the same, dropping his own gun in shock.

"Lestrade the box!" Sherlock yelled throwing the evidence at him and reaching for his gun.

"No!" Charles was on his feet again and reaching for the box before Lestrade could grab it and lobbing it towards the sharp drop. John's training kicked in and he moved before either Lestrade or Sherlock could, leaping forwards and grabbing the box from mid air just as it was about to fall off the edge.

Growling Charles aimed the browning, which he was still holding at John. This time both Lestrade and Sherlock moved, tackling forwards and knocking the man to the ground just as he fired.

Lestrade watched the horror spread across Sherlock's face and blood burst from the side of John's head and he stepped backwards into thin air.

**"John!"**

Sherlock reached out as if to grab the older mans hand despite the distance and John fell, straight off the cliff and down into the black ocean below.

* * *

**I know this chapter isn't exactly exciting but all the info needed to be said :) To make up for it I will be updating as fast as I can as long as you all like where this story is going. **


	2. Chapter 2

Sherlock was off Charles at at the cliffs edge in seconds, leaving Lestrade to knock him out with a well deserved punch to the temple. After making sure Charles really was down for the count he turned to face Sherlock who was standing at the edge silently looking down at the ocean, for a few terrible seconds Lestrade thought he was going to throw himself over the edge as well.

Instead he made a wounded sound that was some sort of mix between a sob and a groan an fell onto his knees. Lestrade's mouth felt dry as he stumbled over to Sherlock and looked down as the swirling ocean crashing against the base of the cliff, even if John survives the fall with a shot to the head and those strong currents...he would never make it.

He looked over at Sherlock's keen eyes, looking at the water with desperation, silently begging John to break the surface and yell up at them. But he didn't.

-oOo-

_'No. No. No no no _**_NO!_**_'_

Sherlock's thoughts were screaming over and over again, just that one word. No complicated deductions or thoughts, the rushing engine had screeched to a stop the minute John had disappeared over the cliff.

'_No. No, he can't be gone...he's a solider, he's strong, he's been shot before he could of made it. Please. Please please PLEASE!'_

"Sherlock?" A voice whispered.

The wrong voice. Not John's voice.

He opened his mouth to tell Lestrade to leave him alone so he could watch the water if John reappeared. When! _When_ John reappeared. Because he had to, he couldn't be...gone it just wasn't an option!

But instead of his regular voice a small sob escaped and he shut his mouth before he could embarrass himself further. This was preposterous! He hadn't cried since he was a child. And anyway there was no point in trying because John wasn't dead, he was alive, he was swimming toward the surface and he'd appear any second now...

"Sherlock, come away from the cliff." Lestrade urged.

"No..." Whether he was denying the inspector or simply voicing his denial he was not sure.

"Sherlock, I'll call the local force but I don't think-"

"DON'T...say it." Sherlock hissed

"Sherlock-"

"Please, no. He's not, he _can't_ be..." Sherlock mumbled, the words just spilled out he couldn't stop them.

The diplomat gave a groan behind them as he came to and Sherlock snapped his head around to face him. He could feel his blood boiling and red haze descending over his vision, this man killed John. He is the reason John fell off the cliff.

A noise that sounded suspiciously like a growl escaped him and he lunged for the man, hands landing around his throat.

"Sherlock!" Lestrade exclaimed, his cry barely made it past the sound of blood rushing through his ears.

Then there were hands pulling him off Charles, who was already unconscious once more, but he lunged for him again but Lestrade held him back. So he struggled and thrashed, trying to get back to the diplomat so he could get the satisfaction of squeezing the pitiful life out of his body himself. He could hear somebody screaming, it took him a few slow seconds to realize that it was himself.

The red haze began to lift and all the energy he had seeped out like water in a drain leaving him limp against Lestrade trying to stifle more sobs.

_John..._

"I'll get a team here from the local force, we'll look for him." Lestrade whispered, "Come on Sherlock, you need to calm down."

He was barely aware that Lestrade was leading him out the front gate to the rental car he'd driven here. He sat on the edge of the backseat with his legs touching the gravel and his hands sitting limply in his lap. He stayed there for hours as police arrived and search team was called in, they searched all night but no John.

He could hear Lestrade talking to a heavily accented German man.

"The currents have probably taken the body, there is a strong undertow here. I hate to say it but I doubt you'll ever have a body to burry."

Another wounded sound escaped the detective lips and his hid his face in his hands so he wouldn't have to see the looks of pity people were giving him. He didn't want their pity, he wanted John.

Slowly the sun began to rise.

It was John's birthday.

-oOo-

His head was pounding, his body was freezing and everything ached. He couldn't even muster the strength to open his eyes. He wanted to call out for somebody, anybody to help him but all that came out was a groan.

After a few minutes he finally managed to blink his eyes open, he was laying on sand on an unfamiliar beach. Actually, everything was unfamiliar, it was then that the man came to realize he didn't even know his own name.

Suddenly shocked awake the man sat up and immediately felt dizzy, he placed his palm at the side of his head and it came away red. Something had grazed his head, but what?

_Head wounds bleed a lot, meaning a wound usually looks worse than it actually is._

He wasn't sure how he knew that, he just did.

He groaned as he tested his limbs, nothing broken but he felt sore all over, like he'd been tossed in a tumble dryer. He glanced around and his eyes caught a sign however, he couldn't read it. Was he illiterate?

_German. The sign is in German, I'm British._

He blinked as this revelation came to him and he breathed a sigh of relief. So obviously he was on holiday or something in Germany, his clothes were jeans and a shirt and green coat, hardly beachwear and they were soaked, he'd probably fallen in the water somewhere and hit his head, then washed up here. That was lucky.

Suddenly he became aware that one side of the jacket was heavier than the other, he prayed it was a phone or a wallet, something that could tell him who the hell he was. It was neither, it was a small leather bound book titled A Study in Pink.

What an odd name.

He opened it, the pages were slightly crinkled and soaked but he could still read it despite the slight smudges here and there. It was a mystery story, about a man named Sherlock Holmes written from the point of view of some nameless narrator. At least he was nameless so far.

Then he noticed a much darker smudge on the inside cover, somebody had written something in black ink but it had smudged terribly in the salt water, it was barely readable.

_John,_

_lost without_

_sincerely_

Those were the only words he could make out, the rest of the ink had leeched too much. So this book was a gift, perhaps he was John? That name seemed to fit him somehow, John. Yes, he was almost certain that was his name, but who gave him the book? If only the name hadn't been smeared away! It must of been a short name though, barely two or three letters going by the amount of ink.

Rubbing at his head John got to his feet, he needed a hospital. He just hoped there was one nearby.

-oOo-

Turns out, stumbling into a hospital bleeding from the head with your clothes ripped and soaked means doctors will admit you straight away. Always nice. They soon realized he didn't understand a word of German and just treated him in silence before sending for an English speaking doctor to explain everything to him.

It was funny, he knew all the techniques and medicines they were giving him and why, perhaps he had studied medicine. Hell, he might even be a doctor himself.

"Sir, can you tell us what happened?" ask a tall thin doctor with a heavy accent.

"No." he admitted, "I don't remember."

Slowly he explained waking up, remembering being British and that his name was probably John, also his suspicion that he might be a doctor. The doctor hummed and wrote it all down, stating he would check if anybody with his likeness was reported missing in the last few days but otherwise they would just have to wait until he regained some of his memories.

-oOo-

Moriarty was more than a little annoyed at Charles, he'd practically set that framed assassination up for him and not only does he blow it, he gets himself caught trying to dispose of the evidence by none other than his favorite detective.

However, there was no report from Sherlock as of yet, only the German police. Which was a shame, Sherlock's recount of his process was always a fascinating read. Then he saw it, in the German report. John Watson had been killed, dropped off a cliff no less but no body recovered as of yet.

"Moran!" Moriarty called, "Get in here!"

"Sir?" Sebastian replied.

"I need all our agents to check hospitals, start with the ones closet to the coast." Moriarty ordered, "If John Watson is still among the living, I want to know about it before the Ice Man does."

It took hours but finally a new admission file appeared, a man with little to no memory at St. Georges Hospital. Jim almost screamed with glee. Amnesia. No memories! An empty mind that he could mould any way he wished. All his Christmases had come early!

Quickly he began working on the deletion of all security footage and the patient file, hospitals were so busy and people were such idiots they wouldn't even notice until it was too late. Still he'd have one of his people keep watching and make sure all proof of John Watson ever being there was wiped clean.

"Sebastian I'm going to Germany!"

-oOo-

That night as he slept John was shocked awake by a multitude of blurry, shapeless images that he couldn't seem to understand. Once he awoke they were all but gone but a few images stayed.

There was a man with dark hair.

An expensive grey suit.

The sounds of police sirens.

Explosions.

And a pair of sharp, pale eyes.

* * *

**The adventure begins! Sorry this chapter is a bit shorter than the last. Heads up, it has been four days since they were on the plane, the first two were spent searching for clues, another at the club being waiters and then this one getting ready for the break in. **


	3. Chapter 3

Jim Moriarty did his best to look worried, loosening his tie, mussing his hair lightly as if he'd been running. Then, with a fake look of concern he strolled into the hospital, wringing his hands together as an extra touch.

"Hello, I'm uh, looking for my friend John. He-Oh God he fell off some cliffs when we were site seeing so I've been checking all the hospitals." He rattled off, pleased when the nurse at the desk gave him a comforting smile and slashed him a picture of John sporting some stitches and bruises.

"Yes! That's him!" He grinned, "Where is he?"

He allowed the nurse to lead him through the hospital toward the room where John was staying, tuning out all the information she was relaying about his condition and memory loss. He'd already read the file and besides, her voice was just an octave too high and was beginning to annoy the consulting criminal.

Finally she left him alone, good thing too, any longer and he'd start planning an unfortunate accident for her just to spare his ears of that terrible squawking. Trying to hide his eagerness he closed his hand around the door knob and stepped inside. John was sitting on the bed which took up most of the room, flicking through some terrible magazine looking bored. However he instantly put it down at the site of another person in his room, one who was obviously not a doctor.

"Hello, Johnny!" Moriarty grinned.

-oOo-

"Hello." John replied to the man warily. He didn't know why but he had tensed at the site of this man.

He had dark hair like in his memory but it was straight and short, something told him that wasn't right. And while the suit was clearly expensive, it wasn't the grey one from his memory. And yet, he did feel some form of familiarity.

"You don't remember me do you?" The man sighed, he looked sad but ever so slightly amused.

"No." John admitted, "I'm guessing I should."

"I'm James Moriarty, but you call me Jim." Moriarty grinned, "You work for me but more importantly, you're my friend."

"I am?" John blinked, that didn't feel right but then again nothing did at the moment and this man _did _feel familiar. Maybe the dark curls in his mind had once belonged to him and he simply got his hair cut and surely he had more than one suit.

"You're John Watson." Jim continued walking over to sit by John on the bed, "We met a few years ago when you got invalided back from Afghanistan. If you don't believe me check your shoulder, there is a scar where the bullet hit you."

John gasped, he had of course discovered the scar himself when he'd showered to get the sand and salt off his body. He'd been wondering where it came from, his natural medical knowledge had told him it was a bullet wound but he knew nothing else. Jim must really know him, how else could he know?

Wait, Jim was a short name, maybe his was the name that had smudged beyond recognition in the little leather book. Carefully he grabbed the small treasure from his night stand and handed it over.

"Did you give me this?" He asked, "It looks pretty new, except for the water damage I mean."

Jim took the book and opened it, looking at it with an expression John couldn't quite decipher. Then he smiled, John couldn't help noticing the gleam in his eyes that didn't seem entirely friendly.

"Yeah, a few days ago actually." Jim grinned, "It was your birthday gift."

"My birthday." John breathed.

"I'd love to stay here and relive your memories Johnny but we really need to leave." Jim spoke up, suddenly very serious, "It's lucky I found you before he did, we need to get somewhere safe."

"Safe? From who?" John paled, somebody was after him?

"Do you think you did this to yourself?" Jim scoffed tapping the stitching at his temple, "You were shot Johnny, by a man who meant to kill you, would have if I hadn't knocked him over at the last second and when the bullet didn't finish you off he threw you from the cliff into the ocean!"

John then felt a flash of memory bubble to the surface, a stinging sensation stemming from his head, then wind in his ears as he fell and black waters...

"I remember falling..." John muttered, Jim nodded enthusiastically.

"See? We need to leave before he discovers you're still alive and comes after us again."

"Why does this guy want to hurt us?" John asked, feeling a headache forming, "Who is he?"

Moriarty made a face that screamed pity.

"The man we've been fighting since we met John, Sherlock Holmes!"

-oOo-

Sherlock wouldn't be able to recount his journey back to England were anybody to ask him, not because his perfect memory was failing but because he had cared so little that he hadn't observed a single thing. At first he had tried to argue with Lestrade, he'd wanted to stay in Germany, find John himself, or at least a body, anything really. Finally he'd given up and had barely spoken since. However the inspector insisted he go home to Baker Street, "to rest" he'd said, like that was possible.

How could he rest? He'd been awake for days, unable to sleep due to the churning of his stomach and a strange pain in his chest. He'd seen people die, their lives snuffed out in less than a second, but some how for it to happen to John seemed so wrong.

John was good and kind and likable. He was warm and he was always smiling, why would somebody like that die? How? The universe made no sense. He felt empty and directionless, Lestrade had to accompany him back to Baker street simply because he stayed still and silent unless somebody pushed him forwards.

He sat down in his chair and stared at John's empty one while he listened to the sound of Lestrade making tea. It didn't sound right, it sounded different to when John made tea. A cup was thrust under his nose but he turned away, he didn't want it, it wouldn't taste right no matter how many times Lestrade tried.

"Sherlock, I'm going to stay here tonight, okay?" Lestrade spoke up gently, "I don't think you should be on your own."

Sherlock sneered, he disliked the idea of Lestrade watching his every move, whats more he would probably want to sleep in John's bed. It was only logical of course but Sherlock didn't want him in John's bed, or even John's room. They belonged to him!

"I'll sleep on the couch." Lestrade continued.

"Fine." Sherlock replied tersely.

There was no point in arguing, Sherlock didn't have the energy to anyway.

Soon Lestrade's gaze began to bother him. His breathing was too loud, his suit was too stiff, he kept fidgeting and his thoughts were too loud. Lacking any better ideas Sherlock picked up his violin and began to torture the strings in the hopes that lestrade would at least leave the room and grant him a moments privacy.

He did not, Sherlock playing anyway, his thoughts began to drift to all the things that annoyed him about Lestrade, making the music come out even rougher and tuneless. Eventually though, his thoughts inevitably drifted back to John, his face as he'd stepped over the cliffs edge, his smile when he'd opened his gift, how they'd laughed together at dinner that night as they continued their usual banter.

How he'd been so brave and shot the cabby, saving Sherlock's life for the first but certainly not the last time. He remembered, only a few months ago when he'd come down with a terrible flu after falling in the Thames at Christmas. John had been patient as he complained and demanded things at all hours, looking after him all the while. He'd made soup and stayed with him all night while the fever made him delirious and weak, he'd even read him case files Lestrade had bought over.

John's voice was soothing and now he'd never hear it again.

Suddenly the detective realized that the music hard stopped being terrible scratchings and turned into a very slow, sad melody without him even meaning to. He quickly stopped and clamped his eyes shut to stop any tears from escaping. He would NOT cry in front of Lestrade!

-oOo-

_Sherlock was standing on a large flat topped pillar made of dark grey stone. Thousands of feet below him dark waters swirled and above thunder and lightning flashed through the thick cloud. He pulled his coat tighter around himself to keep off the cold wind. _

_"How nice of you to show up."_

_Sherlock spun around to see John standing a few feet from him on the other side of the pillar. His clothes were soaked to the point of dripping, forming puddles at his feet, his skin was bone white and his eyes were sunken, grey and so very dead. The worst part though, was the blood, it was plastered across his face and neck, dripping down from the large gash on his head and there was so much of it..._

_"Do you think it's fun, Sherlock?" John hissed, "Being abandoned at the bottom of the ocean? No light, no sounds, no _**_air_**_. Nobody for company except the fish that are eating the flesh off your bones!"_

_Sherlock flinched._

_"They tried-"_

_"Not you though." John crossed his arms, "Not the great Sherlock Holmes, you left me! Left me to freeze in the ocean! I died because of you! Because of you are your oh so brilliant mind! I was following you and you lead me to my death!"_

_"John..."_

_"Don't even start Sherlock, you don't deserve forgiveness after all you've put me through over the years!" John growled as he stalked closer, "You cut me off from the rest of the world, I couldn't date, I couldn't have other friends because of you, you scared everybody away! You freak!"_

_It pained Sherlock more than he could ever say to hear that word come out of John's mouth. He'd felt like a freak for so long and then John had come along and made him feel, human, like he wasn't a monster._

_"I was never happy and it's all your fault." John continued bitterly, dead eyes boring into Sherlock's own, "You should be the one alone at the bottom of the ocean, you should be the one to suffer!"_

_And with that John pushed Sherlock off the long black pillar and down into the waters which began to freeze over, leaving Sherlock trapped under the icy water with the breath knocked out of him. _

_"I hope you suffer. Freak."_

Sherlock screamed as he woke, bolting upright in bed and panting, trying to convince himself it was all just a dream. His breath was coming in irregular gasps and he couldn't seem to control it. It took him a few embarrassingly long seconds to realize that he was sobbing. Now once he'd started he found it hard to stop, curling up in the smallest ball possible again the head board with the sheets still grasped between his fingers.

"Sherlock?"

Lestrade was at his door, probably looking at him and Sherlock was too distraught to be embarrassed.

"Sher-"

"Leave!" Sherlock demanded, still not uncurling himself.

"But-"

"I said **LEAVE!**" Sherlock screamed the last part, glaring at Lestrade with all his might.

With that Lestrade left the room looking very worried and Sherlock curled up under his sheets. But he didn't dare go back to sleep, lest John came back to haunt him again.

* * *

**I'm trying to write Sherlock's point of view in a way that shows he's still sort of in shock about the whole thing. I hope it's coming across.**

**Also I'm going away for three days camping so no updates for a while sorry.**


	4. Chapter 4

John felt another odd feeling of familiarity fill him as he accompanied Jim into a mysterious unmarked lack car. The name Sherlock Homes bounced around in his head, it was familiar, just like Jim and the black car but something seemed, wrong. Like he had a puzzle only whenever he found two pieces that fit together they would change and no longer matched, leaving him perpetually confused.

Jim had told him how he'd been shot in the army and that he could look up the records if he liked, to prove he was telling the truth. After that he'd come back to London, alone and terribly bored when he'd run into Jim while he was working an undercover job at a hospital called St. Barts. He'd recruited him into his large organization that pulled off the most amazing crimes John had ever heard of. Jim had been explaining some of their work for the past few minutes.

"You and Sebastian are my best fighters, you're great on the ground and he covers you as my top sniper." Jim recounted enthusiastically, "You should of seen it, this one heist we pulled, serial suicides, one of our best. You shot the man who was about to blow our cover. Excellent shot it's a shame you don't remember it."

John found it hard to believe he was a killer, but at the same time small flashes of memory seemed to be confirming the story.

The feel of a gun in his hand.

Firing it off without remorse and hitting his target perfectly.

Running around a desert, medical bad in one hand and a Browning in the other...

"So, who is Sherlock Holmes?" John asked finally.

"He is a thorn in our side, a very interesting thorn mind you, but a thorn none the less." Jim scowled, "The consulting detective, he works with Scotland Yard and is almost are brilliant as me."

John had really only 'met' Jim but he knew for sure he was brilliant, his deduction skills had left him speechless when leaving the hospital, exposing an affair on the way.

"And he tried to kill me." John confirmed, Moriarty nodded.

"He knows you're my number two guy, you have also gotten in his way personally on many cases." Moriarty smiled fondly.

This didn't feel right, he was an assassin? He didn't feel like an assassin. And yet, everything Jim said made sense, as he regained small glimpses of memory Jim would explain them without batting an eyelid.

His unease, almost fear of a large black dog with red eyes.

"One of my scientists genetic experiments, they were trying to give my dogs more strength and speed however it didn't work. One of the specimens got out into the house and almost killed you, would of if you hadn't had your gun on you."

A beautiful but cold woman with a wicked grin.

"A dommanatrix I hired once for a crime."

His mysterious medical knowledge.

"You _were_ an army doctor."

Finally the car came to a stop outside a very ornate but very remote house, well, mansion really. Jim looked at him expectantly as he starred, he wanted John to remember this place, it had apparently been his home for some years.

And yet he didn't. He had no recollection of this place, but Jim was looking expectant, hopefully, so he lied.

"I think I remember this." He supplies feebly, he didn't expect Jim to fall for it but to his surprise he beamed.

"That's great, your memories will be back before you know it Johnny!"

-oOo-

Just as expected, the ever soft doctor felt bad for not remembering his 'home', not surprising as he'd never been there. So he'd lied, just as Moriarty knew he would. Making up false memories to warp the real ones had been easy for his genius brain to think up and he knew John was lapping it all up like the dog he was.

Pretty soon he would be able to plant completely false memories, without his part John barely knew who he was, turning the doctor into a murderer would be simple. Then he would us him to take down Sherlock, even have him end the detectives life and then, only then, when John's hands were swimming in blood would he reveal the truth. The doctors reaction would prove most interesting.

He lead John through the house, allowing him to look at all the ornate arches and expensive things that decorated the home, finally they arrived at the library where Sebastian was waiting.

"Johnny! You're alive." he greeted just as planned.

"Hi," John replied awkwardly, "Sorry I don't-"

"Sebastian Moran." The sniper supplied offering his smokes to John he recoiled.

"Come on Johnny, we always smoke together after work."

Jim made a mental note to give Moran an extra exciting assignment as soon as it came in. He fought a malicious grin when John took one and lit it, it took a few drags but he relaxed into the behavior quickly.

In just a few short weeks the world would have a brand new John Watson.

-oOo-

Sherlock had locked his door and refused to come out until Lestrade left, he just wanted some peace! Was that too much to ask?

It was going to take some time though, Lestrade was stubborn.

Both his laptop and his phone were in the lounge leaving him bored in his room. For a while he had simply laid on the bed staring at the wall trying desperately to think of nothing instead of jumpers and tea and late nights watching Bond films and Doctor Who reruns.

He failed a short time later and without thinking about it, reached between his bed frame and the mattress and drew out a small photograph. He hadn't look at it in months, but it had been a comfort, knowing it was there.

The picture had been taken by Dimmock, Sherlock and John were leaning on their knees trying to catch their breath, but grinning all the while after a particularly vigorous chase through the streets on London. They were smiling at each other, it wasn't a perfect moment really, no special words had been said it really was just another case. But Sherlock still loved the photo, he took it out to remind him that he really did have a true friend, at least he had.

_'Oh John, why did you have to go?'_

Sherlock wished he knew why he was like this now, normal. Before John he didn't care about people, he could function without them at ease but life without John was unbearable now. How had he ever lived before?

"Sherlock, please come out. At least eat something?" Lestrade pleaded from the other side of the door.

"I'm not hungry." Sherlock croaked curling in on himself, still clutching the photo.

"Have they found John's...have they found John?" He asked after a few seconds.

"No." Lestrade sighed, "Come on Sherlock, you need to be rational, the tides could of washed it anywhere..."

Sherlock looked back at the picture, John looked so happy, so alive. He couldn't bare to think that he was rotting at the bottom of the ocean somewhere.

"I don't care what you think, Lestrade." He said finally, "I want his body found. He should be buried properly, he deserves that."

_'And so much more...'_

* * *

**Coming soon: Moriarty continues to 'remind' John of who he is and Sherlock continues to not cope with John's death and begins to spiral out of control. **


	5. Chapter 5

Despite the lack of memories concerning the man John felt himself bonding with Sebastian. Moriarty had an entire shooting range at the back of his house, he'd spent the last few days getting familiar with his browning again, it had come naturally. He really must of been this hit man Moriarty told him he was.

The man himself had been in and out of his life over the last week, apparently really busy planning some heist they were pulling off sometime soon but he made sure Sebastian wasn't on a job when he was gone. The two seemed very reluctant to leave him alone. Probably afraid he might forget something and wander off.

His room was near Sebastian's in the manor and not too far from Moriarty himself, it was the only place he was left alone, though he suspected there might be security cameras though for the life of him he couldn't figure out why.

Sebastian told him not to worry, there were cameras everywhere in this big house, even his room. He'd even shown him to prove a point.

To be honest, at first life at the manor had seemed, wrong. Having Sebastian come home at two in the morning, waking him up and telling him all about the hit he'd just been on and how he'd killed the guy. It had seemed, sick. However as time passed it became more and more normal, John found himself itching to be back in action again, though a small part of him told him that was wrong.

"I wish Jim would tell us what this big job he's planning is." John sighed, only half paying to attention book he was reading.

He and Sebastian had wandered into the library due to the dullness that was infecting their day. Even Seb hadn't been given a job.

"You're telling me, I'm eager to see you back in action." Seb grinned from his place on the couch, stretched out like a cat across the upholstery.

"Me too." John admitted.

"Uh! I'm so bored!" Seb groaned, flicking his own handgun towards the wall and firing off several bullets.

John was hit with a sudden wave of familiarity, the word 'bored' echoed about his brain along with the sound of gun fire and a voice...

_"What the hell are you doing?!"_

His own voice, Seb must have a habit of shooting walls when he got bored. Yeah, that was it.

-oOo-

_"Alright? Are you alright!?"_

_"It's okay now..."_

_"I don't have friends...I've just got one..."_

_"JOHN!"_

John snapped awake for the second night in a row. He'd been hearing that strange voice in his head whenever he fell asleep, it wasn't Jim or Seb, but for some reason he felt he could trust that person. They were important and they cared for him a great deal.

He could not place who it belonged to though, he hadn't mentioned it to either of his friends yet but he'd have to soon. He knew it was irrational but he felt he had to keep this a secret for some reason, like, the owner of the voice didn't want Jim or Seb knowing.

The doctor shook his head, what was he saying? Jim had proven time and time again to be his friend, so why didn't he want to trust him with this?

-oOo-

Sherlock fidgeted in the cab, something he almost never did. He found himself feeling nervous for reasons he could not explain. It was his first case back since John's...demise, and he found that he no longer enjoyed the silence of the empty car.

Before John he had used this time to make deductions on the case from what Lestrade had told him, settle his mind into a calm clean slate ready to absorb all new information. Once John had joined him it became a time of talking, shared theorizing and even a few exclamations of adoration from John.

Now it was silence. Heavy and baring down on Sherlock.

He convinced himself that taking a case was the right thing to do. It would distract him, give him something to do, something different to think about. Lestrade had left him alone only if he promised to take the case and to answer every text he sent, even if it was just to tell him to piss off.

The crime scene looked bleak, a single body with it's head caved in dumped in an alley.

"Sherlock." Lestrade smiled nervously.

"Lestrade." Sherlock nodded, trying to hide a yawn.

"Haven't you been sleeping?" Lestrade paused him.

No, he had not. Every night he had dreams of a half rotted corpse, John's corpse to be exact, dragging him down into the freezing ocean. He had solved this problem by drinking liberal amounts of coffee and staying awake as long as he could, that way when he finally did crash, he'd be too exhausted to dream.

"None of your business." Sherlock snapped, shrugging the inspector off.

It took less than a minute to deduce that this was a simple mugging gone wrong, the perpetrator was probably high or otherwise mentally incapacitated and hit the victim too hard. He relayed all this to nobody in particular, flinching slightly when nobody whispered "brilliant!" or "Amazing!" in his ear.

He then turned to leave but not before he caught the hushed whispers of the other officer on the scene.

"Did you hear? They say that blogger fellow died on their last case?"

"I bet the freak offed him as some experiment."

"I dunno, he seems even colder than usual. I think he's gonna snap!"

"It's a shame, the doctor was such a nice guy. Shame he got mixed up with Holmes."

Not that he showed it as he walked away, long coat billowing out behind him, but every word felt like a shard of glass in his heart.

It was all true and it made it so much worse.

He took a deep breath and began to walk home, he couldn't face the cab again. He was Sherlock Holmes for goodness sake! He would not crumble and become a sobbing mess! John was important yes but he wasn't going to let his whole life fall to pieces because he'd lost his blogger...and his partner, his confident, his only friend in the entire world...

He kept walking, faster now, he was practically running.

Some how he managed to get back to Baker Street in one piece, Lord know how, he wasn't paying attention to cars on the street before he crossed. Finally he ran up the stairs, but not into his own room, into John's.

Everything was exactly how he left it, a few jumpers draped over the furniture, a book half read sitting on his night table, there was even an empty tea cup sitting next to it. He was torn, part of him wanted to stay, sleep here for a while just for the comfort, another part of him wanted to preserve the room exactly how John left it. Then maybe, for a little while, he could pretend he was just down at the shops, that he'd be back any moment.

In the end he wound up sitting on John's bed with his striped jumper in his hands, the feel of the wool under his finger tips was familiar and comforting. However the comfort soon faded, leaving Sherlock with a hollow ache in his chest reminding him that John was gone and never coming back.

"Please." He whispered to nobody in particular, "Don't be dead. Just come back, one more miracle John, for me."

* * *

**Sorry for the slow update but I'm having real trouble with this story, it just doesn't seem to be up to scratch. **

**Also, I live in Australia which to those of you who don't know, the east half is on Fire, the middle is roasting in the summer heat and the west is currently being pummeled by a tropical storm. **

**I live in the part that is currently on fire and have been very busy helping people and making sure I'M not on fire. **


	6. Chapter 6

_Sherlock was back on the estate, standing by the cliffs. How did he get here?_

_"Sherlock! Help me!"_

_John's voice echoed up from the rocks edge and the detective found himself peering over to find the doctor barely hanging on to the rough stone. Without thinking the detective dropped to his knees and tried to reach for him, he felt his heart clench as the stone began to the crumble and John started to lose his grip. This was his chance to save his only friend, if he could just reach him..._

_"Sherlock, I can't hold on!" _

_"Hang on! Just a little bit further..."_

_He was so close, he could just brush his fingers against John's...if he could just pull him up! Finally he managed to string John's fingers through his own lightly but then suddenly something grabbed him by the back of his long coat and tugged upwards._

_"No!" Sherlock cried as John's fingers slipped through his._

_He could only watch as the doctor plummeted into the black water with a blood curling scream that was cut off much too quickly. No, no no! He'd been so close, John had been right there._

_He looked up over his shoulder, a shadowy figure was holding him back. Sherlock felt his blood boil, if it weren't for them pulling him back before he had a grip...! With a roar of fury he launched himself at the dark figure, knocking them to the ground and settling his hands around their throat._

_"This is all your fault!" He screamed._

_"You're right." The figure chuckled darkly._

_That voice...no it couldn't be! Just as quickly as ti had come to a boil Sherlock felt his blood turn to ice. The moon moved out from behind the dark clouds and the shadows disintegrated leaving the figures features clear._

_Sherlock was looking at himself. _

_"You're fault!" The mirror image spat._

Sherlock's eyes snapped open and for a few moments he could see nothing but darkness before his eyes adjusted. He was in his room, tangled in his bed sheets, it had all been another nightmare. That didn't change the fact that he was close to hyperventilating.

Squeezing his eyes closed he shoved the heel of his palms into them so hard it hurt. A breathy sob escaped his mouth. He couldn't take this anymore, when he was awake he was exhausted, the guilt was unbearable and John's mark was everywhere, when he slept the nightmares took any rest he'd gotten, leaving him frightened and feeling even worse.

He just wanted some relief, to stop thinking and feeling, even if it was only for a little while. He hadn't felt so tempted to take up the needle again in years. He bit his lip, John would hate him even more if he went back to drugs, but the idea was still so tempting...

He reached for his mobile and managed to dial Lestrade's number, it was the inspector who forced him to get clean in the first place. If anybody could talk him out of a relapse it was him.

"Sherlock?" Lestrade's sleepy voice answered the call, "It's 4am..."

Sherlock opened his mouth and was barely able to repress a sob, his voice wasn't working yet.

"Sherlock?" Lestrade asked again, this time much more alert and with more than a tinge of worry.

"I can't...the nightmares, the guilt, I can't take it anymore." Sherlock managed to reply, "I want to..."

"Okay, deep breaths Sherlock." Lestrade guided, he could hear the inspector getting dressed in a hurry, "I want you to stay on the line and I'll come to Baker Street, okay?"

"Okay."

The next ten minutes were a blur for Sherlock, he barely listened or responded to Lestrade's words as he spoke to him. He simply focused on his breathing, slowly becoming calm once more and cursing himself for being so weak as to reach out to another person, a person who wasn't John.

_-oOo-_

Finally! Finally Jim had finished his big plans for the next few weeks and John was back on the team heading toward their hit.

It was brilliant really, they were breaking into the three most secure buildings in all of Britain! Pentonville Prison, The Tower of London and Bank of England. Not to steal but just to prove they could. Personally John didn't understand why they couldn't nick a jewel or two from the tower but Moriarty was instant, they weren't thieves tonight, they were simply leaving a mark.

Naturally Jim was going to take the tower, Seb was taking the prison leaving John to take the bank. Jim would activate his little virus of whatever it was that would open the gates, all he had to do was drop down into the vault using the cutting tools to get through the roof, paint the symbol and walk out.

_"Make sure the security camera see you leave," Jim had instructed, "Look casual and happy, like you do this all the time."_

So here he was, waiting in the vent shaft of this damned bank, slowly cutting through the metal and waiting from the text from Jim.

**It's Showtime! - JM**

Finally!

It felt good to be out and about again, while he didn't remember the jobs specifically the feeling of adrenaline and danger coursing through his veins was defiantly familiar. He dropped down into the vault just as the door was opening, quickly he shook the can of yellow spray paint and got to work.

Each of the men was spraying a different message on the floor, John was particularly happy with his.

_Miss me Sherlock?_

It would be a nasty surprise for that detective when he discovered his attempt to kill him had been a failure.

Then, just as Moriarty had instructed he walked out, humming to himself casually as he heard footsteps approaching. He had reached the front door, which was glass, in a matter of minutes and used a well aimed bullet to smash his way through it.

One night guard managed to catch up to him.

"Hey! Stop!"

John turned and without filching aimed the gun at the man and fired. He went down without another word. From start to finish the entire break in had taken less than three minutes and no cops were in the area.

Still humming happily to himself John walked around the next corner and jumped into the backseat of the familiar unmarked car, which then drove off into the night and back to the estate.

-oOo-

By the time Lestrade arrived at Baker street Sherlock was much calmer but still twitching and looking mildly manic. He should never of left him the poor man looked as if he was going mad.

"Hey Sherlock," Lestrade greeted softly, sitting down on the side of the bed with him, "I bought you some sleeping pills okay?"

He handed the man a single blue tablet, he didn't dare bring an entire bottle in case Sherlock decided to down them all at once in a fit of despair. Sherlock didn't argue funnily enough, simply downed the medicine dry and before long his blinks were becoming slower.

"I'm going to stay the night alright?" Lestrade asked, Sherlock made a muffled sound that could of been 'fine'.

Finally, the detective had dropped off into a deep, dreamless sleep and there was peace for the first time since John's death. At least there was, until Lestrade's phone rang.

* * *

**Check out cold killer John! This is getting dark...**


	7. Chapter 7

**For those who were wondering this story takes places after Hounds of Baskerville but in this fic Reichenbach never happens.**

For the first time in so very long Sherlock felt rested, he even had trouble opening his eyes at first. When he did eventually blink them open he was met with the sight of his clock, telling him it was already ten thirty. He never slept this late. The memories from the night came back him him, dulling his good mood but he was still thankful for Lestrade's help, not that he'd tell him.

Vaguely he remembered Lestrade promising to stay until morning, yet he was nowhere in the room. Odd. It was unlike Lestrade to leave when he thought somebody was in need, which Sherlock surely had been, much to his chagrin.

"No, we can't...Not yet! I'll tell him I will but just let me break it to him gently..."

That was Lestrade's voice.

"Mycroft, please I can't just...do you have any idea how this could effect him?"

He was on the phone with his brother. That was never good news.

"Have him take the case? Are you mad!...Yes I know he'll try to anyway..."

"What case?" Sherlock spoke up, walking into the living area so suddenly Lestrade almost fell over.

"Bye." He hissed quickly into the phone.

"What case?" Sherlock repeated seriously, now that he was properly rested he felt up to a case, it would keep his busy and his mind away from thoughts of jumpers and tea.

"It's nothing, dull." Lestrade replied quickly, too quickly, "How are you feeling."

"Fine, I want that case." Sherlock replied tersely.

Lestrade made a nervous face.

"A week ago you were begging me to take cases for you, no matter how trivial, ergo there is something about this case you don't want me knowing about. Mycroft knows, so it must be something quite serious, not your average murderer. Meaning national security is being questioned, usually you would want me on that case but you don't meaning..."

Sherlock faded off for a few seconds before it dawned on him.

"Moriarty." He breathed, "Moriarty has resurfaced and you don't think I could handle such a large case on my own!"

He felt insulted.

"It's not that." Lestrade sighed, "I...come on, I'll show you the files, they're at the station but Sherlock, promise me you wont take the case if you don't feel you can. Alright?"

Sherlock scoffed, he could handle_ any _case.

-oOo-

"Last night, Moriarty and two of his associates broke into three of the most secure buildings in all England." Lestrade informed him, handing him the case file, "They went in, left a message and then left in under three minutes each, all of them were caught on security camera."

"No casualties then?" Sherlock muttered feeling disappointed.

"One, a security guard at the bank was shot in the throat." Lestrade sighed, he looked pained, "I've got the security footage here."

Sherlock watched Moriarty first, he danced about the crown jewels eventually spray painting his message on the glass and walking out, grinning at every camera on the way.

The message was short and ever so slightly confusing.

_You lose. - M_

Moriarty didn't expect him to solve this case?

He didn't dwell on it for long, the second man entered Pentonville from the roof and spray painted his message across a wall in the yard.

_We win. - S_

It tok Sherlock twenty minutes and a military database to confirm that 'S' was Sebastian Moran, a sniper who had dropped off the grid a few years ago. Sherlock was genuinely surprised that he was able to walk out of the front gate of the jail without even injuring somebody.

Sherlock glanced at the inspector, he was watching him like a hawk and glancing nervously at the final video showing the third man. Sherlock raised his eyebrow but didn't say anything, so far this case was exactly what he needed, he had no idea what the big deal was.

He clicked the video.

This one was darker than the rest, the short man dropped down into the vault with his back to the camera and painted his message.

_Miss me Sherlock?_

That was odd. Then the man turned and Sherlock felt every part of his body seize up, including his brain. The usual hum of activity was silenced, he was unable to move or think as he saw the face on the screen.

_John._

Content, happy, practically skipping through the halls of the bank until he reached the front door and shot it, smashing the glass.

Then the guard ran into the black and white frame and Sherlock found himself gripping the computer screen.

_"No casualties then?"_

_"One, a security guard at the bank was shot in the throat."_

_No no no no..._

John turned to face the man and without batting an eyelash, shot him. He had turned away and walked out before the man had even hit the floor. John had killed before, but never so coldly and only ever as a last resort.

It wasn't possible. John was alive! Alive! He could see his face clearly on the screen, every detail was perfect. John was alive and he'd joined Moriarty...

He suddenly became aware that he'd gone limp in the chair he was sitting in and that he'd been moved away from the computer, Lestrade was gripping his shoulders. He didn't bother replying to his calls though, what was the point? There was none.

John had survive his fall, he'd joined Moriarty. He probably hated Sherlock and joined up to hurt him, it worked.

That was the logical thought of course.

However the small, emotional part of him was screaming. Why? _Why?_

"Sherlock? Sherlock! Say something!"

Sherlock blinked up at Lestrade, he felt dizzy. He opened his mouth to say something but instead, promptly passed out.

-oOo-

Jim positively shrieked with laughter as they watched the security footage from Scotland Yard, so did John and Seb. He actually passed out! While he laughed John looked back at the screen, which Jim had placed on reply and suddenly he felt a pang of sympathy toward the detective that he could not explain.

He didn't only look shocked, he looked wrecked, distraught. A small part of John's mind wanted to do anything to stop that feeling of hurt appearing on the detective's face ever again. But why? He should hate him, no he did, he did hate him of course he did!

...didn't he?

He suddenly had a kind of vision, like those when he got parts of his memory back.

_He was in a cage, in the dark, he was scared of something he couldn't recall, only that he was terribly frightened and alone. Then suddenly there was a bright light and the cage was opening and there was Sherlock, reaching in and helping him up. _

_"It's alright, It's okay now..."_

"John?" Jim's voice bought him back to the present, he must of spaced out.

"Yeah, fine, just, memories you know?" He tried to joke.

He made up some spiel about remembering some battle in Afghanistan and excused himself. That couldn't be a real memory could it? Sherlock wasn't his friend...right?


	8. Chapter 8

Sherlock could hear muffled voices somewhere around him that were slowly becoming more clear, though he could not yet make out the words. He recognized the first, it was Lestrade, his tone was hushed and rife with concern, the second was short and snappish, Donovan then. He became aware that he was half sitting, half laying in a an armchair with something warm placed over him lightly, leaving only his face uncovered.

The only place in the MET with armchairs was the break room, so he must be there, as for the blanket, it was probably one of the garish orange shock blankets taken from any supply cupboard.

"Don't you dare tease him for this you here?"

"What sort of person do you think I am, even I wouldn-"

"Tell Anderson, he would."

"Hmm..."

"Should we call an ambulance, it's been almost ten minutes now and he's not moved a muscle..."

Ten minutes since what? Then it all came rushing back, the case, the video, John. The sudden surge of emotional pain must of caused his face to flicker because Lestrade started calling to him again.

"Hey, Sherlock? Can you hear me?"

Unfortunately.

He wished he could be left alone so he could...do what exactly? Mourn over the loss of his friend? Hate himself for ruining the one friendship he had? Stick ridiculous amounts of cocaine into his body? After all John's memory was hardly stopping him anymore.

He didn't have much choice and opened his eyes, trying not to let heat burn on his face when he realized he'd just passed out in front of multiple members of Scotland Yard.

"Hey, are you okay?"

"I'm fine." Sherlock replied gruffly, standing up and dropping the orange blanket at his feet.

"Listen you don't-"

"I'm going home." Sherlock announced curtly, "Solve the case on your own."

And with that he walked out without another word.

The next few days he shut everything and every one out, he locked the door and bolted it so Ms. Hudson had to resort to yelling through the door. He never replied though. He closed all the windows, shut off his phone and computer and stayed in the dark not really doing anything.

He'd been fine on his own before but now, now he felt more hopeless and alone than he ever had. John had made him think, made him hope, that perhaps he wasn't a complete freak, that he had earned just one real friend. He had been so stupid and so wrong.

-oOo-

Over the next few days memories began coming back quickly with only the slightest of triggers. The sight of an oak tree made him remember his sister Harry falling from one in the park as a child, this of course bought back the memories of her and her alcohol. He remembered most of his army service and most of is childhood as well. He was also beginning to get flashes of what he assumed to be various jobs he'd taken with Moriarty, running through streets, firing his gun through a window, fighting a freakishly tall man in a dark theater.

But then came the memories he couldn't explain, violin music, a man named Angelo and his restaurant, a conversation on a park bench that he could not yet recall. All of them confused him but none so much as the memory of Sherlock from before. His words were comforting and John had been calmed by them in his memory but that made no sense!

-oOo-

Jim could see John getting more and more frustrated as the days went by, no doubt having remembered something that clashed with the story he'd been feeding him. He'd have to act quickly if his original plan of having the doctor murder his friend was to work. However, much to his delight the hassle was taken off his hands one night.

It had been a particularly bad day for John, losing to Seb on the shooting range and he'd injured his hand with his cigarette lighter.

So, Moriarty watched with glee as John paced about his room that evening and finally, when it was dark, he loaded his hand gun and left the mansion without a word. No doubt heading straight to Sherlock to demand answers. Grinning, Jim jumped into one of his cars and, being very careful not to be seen by the doctor, followed.

-oOo-

Sherlock was laying listlessly on his bed, still dressed when he heard the sound of footsteps downstairs. At first he thought it was just Ms. Hudson, coming home after going out with her sister to a late film. However he quickly realized this deduction was wrong when he heard the lock being shot off the front door to the flat.

He shot to his feet and quickly dashed the the lounge room where he saw the last person he expected, John. But he wasn't the same John, there were no jumpers or ratty jeans like normal. Instead he was in expensive, dark blue jeans and a dark jacket, his hair had even been slightly spiked with gel.

"John." He breathed.

"Explain what's going on." John ordered harshly pointing the gun right at his face, "Why do I remember you being my friend when you tried to kill me?"

"What?" Sherlock blinked.

"Stop being patronizing and just tell me what's going on!" John demanded, "Everything made sense until these other memories started coming back and don't pretend you don't know what I'm talking about because Jim says you deduced it all!"

"You don't remember." Sherlock blinked in shock, oh it all made sense now! John had lost his memories! Then the realization of what Moriarty had done made his blood boil with rage, his anger must of shown on his face because John's grip tightened on the handgun.

"Moriarty that snake." He hissed, "He's been lying to you all this time!"

"No, Jim can explain every memory I've recovered, he;s proven himself, I just want to know where you fit in because you don't make sense!" John argued.

"No don't you see! He's been lying and manipulating you all this time!" Sherlock argued, feeling something akin to hope blossoming slowly in his chest.

"You've never work for him you work _with_ me!" Sherlock insisted, "You're my friend remember? I don't have friends, I've just got one."

Obviously that last bit struck a nerve because he saw John's eyes widen slightly.

"How could you...? No, no I am not falling for this!"

"It's not a trick I can prove it." Sherlock insisted, "Just let me get a photo from my bedroom."

"Sure sure, more likely you'll come out sporting your own gun." John snarled.

"I don't own a gun, I used your remember?"

"Stop telling me to remember things that aren't true!"

The two stood facing each other, the detective tried to think of something to prove his innocence and at the same time not anger this new John any further. Who knows what sort of personality Moriarty had twisted into him.

Then came another set of footprints bounding up the stairs.

Of course Moriarty couldn't resist watching. The westwood clad man grinned as he entered the room, but only for a moment before becoming serious, still his lips twitched.

"I came to make sure you didn't do anything stupid Johnny."

Sherlock growled, how dare he speak to John like that! He was his friend, not Moriarty's!

"You bastard." Sherlock snarled, "You tell him the truth right now!"

"I am, you're the liar, trying to convince him he's on your side so you can cut his throat when his back is turned."

"Stop this! Stop it now!"

"Shut up!" John interrupted, "What's going on?"

"He's lying to you!" Both Moriarty and Sherlock countered at the same time, leaving John glancing back and forth between them both nervously.

"I explained all your memories didn't I?" Moriarty pointed out, "He's the liar, shoot him, end this!"

"No John don't!" Sherlock cut in, "He's been making this up from the beginning, he's warped all your memories to fit his own purposes."

John's eyes flicked back and forth between the two, a minute ago he'd been sure Moriarty was his friend but now he wasn't sure.

"We were on a case, I gave you a book, our first case together remember?" Sherlock prompted, "THe perp shot you and you fell over the cliff, I thought...I thought you were dead."

"But Jim gave me that book..." John argued, "As a joke..."

He didn't sound so sure anymore.

"If you really did give it to me what did the message inside say?" John questioned becoming cold and serious once more.

"Dear John, Id be lost without my blogger, SH." Sherlock replied without pausing.

John looked impressed.

"The ink was smudged but it could of said that, but if Jim gave it to me, how could you...?"

"He's just guessing John, obviously, now shoot him!" Jim ordered, slowly loosing his temper, "I was the one who gave you a home after Afghanistan, who paid to fix your limp! WHo are you going to trust me or him!"

"My limp..." John breathed, eyes widening and he stepped back, for a second Sherlock feared he was going to pass out. But then the solider straightened and glared at the consulting criminal.

"I don't have any scars on my leg, but I had a limp, it was psychosomatic. You're the liar."

Moriarty looked shocked for a few minutes before chuckling darkly.

"Alright you got me Johnny boy." He laughed, "I almost had you though."

"All those things you made me believe..." John looked horrified, "All the things I did because I thought...Oh God..."

"You even killed for me without second thought." Moriarty added gleefully, John paled even more.

John aimed the handgun at the madman.

"Ah ah ah! Don't want to add another body to the court case do you?" The criminal teased, John bit his lip and lowered his arm.

"That's what I thought."

And with that, Moriarty bounded down the stairs and out into the night leaving John and Sherlock alone.

"John?" Sherlock called gently, as if asking permission to approach him. The doctor dropped the gun as if it'd burnt him and threaded his fingers through his hair.

"Oh God ohgodohgodohgod..." He muttered under his breath.

Sherlock stood their awkwardly, not really knowing what to do.

"I can't believe...I am so so sorry Sherlock." he mumbled, "It's coming back now...I can't...God I'm sorry."

He turned to face him, the dark blue eyes were shining with tears. Without really thinking the detective moved forward and embraced his friend tightly, it didn't matter if he was broken John was alive and that was all that was important. After a few seconds John clung back and neither of them moved or talked. Usually Sherlock wasn't one for displays of affection but at that moment, nothing in the world could of made him let go.

* * *

**Only one more chapter!**


	9. Chapter 9

After a while Sherlock loosened his hold so he wasn't crushing the smaller man but still did not let go. Burying his face into his shoulder and neck to properly convince himself his eyes weren't lying to him.

"I thought you were dead." He whispered finally not even caring that his voice cracked, "I thought I'd lost you."

John shifted, turning his face away from where Sherlock was currently hiding his own. Finally the two let go of one another and simply looked. Drinking in one another presence after so long.

"I can't believe I fell for Moriarty's lies." John muttered, looking at his feet, hands curled into fists, "I mean, I tried to kill you...I did kill that security guard..."

Sherlock wasn't sure what to say. It wasn't as if John had never killed before, but never an innocent in cold blood. How does one comfort a friend for doing that? John pressed his hands into his eyes letting out a sound of frustration and self loathing.

"I'm so, so sorry Sherlock." He muttered again, hate from himself in every syllable.

"I forgive you." Sherlock replied without even thinking about it.

John was here, alive and breathing and not on the side of Moriarty, Sherlock would do anything to keep it that way.

"I don't forgive myself." John growled, "That man I killed..."

"Mycroft could deal with it." Sherlock interrupted quickly, "You know he can make it disappear-"

"But I don't want that Sherlock!" John yelled making the detective jump.

"I _killed _an innocent man, I deserve to be put away!"

John would be in jail for years for that offense, Sherlock couldn't stand that. Only seeing John once a week through a pane of glass, nobody to accompany him on cases or made sure he ate. He'd go mad.

"Don't go?" Sherlock pleaded quietly, not meeting the other mans eyes, "Not again. We could work something out..."

John looked at him with hope in his eyes, but it was saddened hope. He wanted to stay but didn't feel he deserved to.

"Please, at least stay tonight...we can sort it all out tomorrow."

John sighed.

"Alright."

-oOo-

When John awake the next morning he found himself sitting on the couch, leaning against the back with Sherlock curled up against the arm. The unbearable guilt bared down on him for what he'd done, yes he had ben tricked but that didn't make his acts any less terrible.

Sighing he reached for Sherlock's phone where it sat on the table and sent off a text to Lestrade explaining the situation in brief and that he could come and arrest him at any point he saw fit. He wouldn't run. God knows he deserved to rot in hell.

Sherlock seemed dead to the world and John couldn't find the heart to wake him. The detective didn't look as if he'd been sleeping well these last few weeks. Part of him wanted to go and change his clothes so he looked more like himself but in the end he stayed where he was just enjoying finally being home.

Eventually the tell tale sounds of footsteps were heard echoing up the stairs and Lestrade appeared with a solemn look on his face. Sighing John got to hi feet and held out his wrists compliantly, surprised when he realized Lestrade wasn't moving to cuff him. The doctor sent him a quizzical look and found the inspector watching the sleeping form of Sherlock.

"This is the first time he's slept properly since your 'death' you know." He said quietly, "He's been having nightmares near constantly, I had to drug him once because he called me up in the middle of the night in a panic."

John didn't know what to say.

"He was lost without you, you know." Lestrade added, "I don't want to be the one to take you away from him again."

"Greg." John sighed, "I killed a man remember, I...I don't want to go but I can't just pretend that didn't happen."

"Mycroft has a suggestion." Lestrade informed him with a hint of hope in his voice, "You were, to a degree, mentally unstable at the time, he can pull strings so you can be 'punished' but stay out of jail."

"How's that?" John asked, he'd do anything if he could stay here with Sherlock.

"You act as a doctor to his various agents for no pay." Lestrade suggested.

That was incredibly light considering he'd taken a human life and John knew it was an offer that was more than he could ever deserve for it. But he found himself nodding all the while. He mad a silent vow to always work one extra shift at the clinic a week for free, once his work with Mycroft was done.

-oOo-

Slowly Sherlock started to wake but he didn't yet open his eyes. It had been such a strange dream, but wonderful as well because John was back. If he just stayed here, perhaps he could pretend it was real and that John would be there if he were to open his eyes.

"Sherlock? Sherlock you really need to wake up and eat something you look like a stick figure."

The detective eyes snapped open.

John. It wasn't a real John was back, with his worn out jeans and beige jumper. The happiness that flooded him was then cut off, John was going to be arrested and taken away again. The pain must of shown on his face because John gave him a reassuring smile.

"I'm not going anywhere." He promised, "I've worked out a deal with Mycroft."

Usually this would cause annoyance but right now Sherlock was just glad everything had worked out for him, perfectly, just this once.

"It's good to have you home."

* * *

**The End.**


End file.
